The Met's Best
by starrrz
Summary: Midsomer Murders Troy's busy being the high flying detective in Middlesbrough but what happens when a murder investigation leads him right back to Midsomer?
1. Chapter 1

_**Notes: This is the result of watching too much Midsomer Murders.**_

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing. sniff**_

Troy sat staring at his computer screen, tiredly swiping a hand across his eyes once more in an attempt to stop the world blurring at the edges; there was still a mountain of paperwork to get through before he could knock off for the night. He supposed it was the price you paid for promotion. Although the ugly voice in the back of his head, the one he always tried so hard to ignore, was quick to point out if was his utter lack of anything better to do, or closer to the bone, anyone to get home to that kept him in the CID office when his colleagues were either curled up in bed or out on the tiles.

Stifling another yawn he reasoned that today had just been particularly stressful. He hadn't even had chance to get a mouthful of tea and toast down him before his mobile had been ringing; The body had been lying on the banks of the canal, an IC1 male in his mid 20s wearing dark blue jeans, a striped black and white shirt, black lace ups; the back of his skull caved in with a weapon they had yet to recover. The scene was horrific. The attack had been brutal, frenzied, the back of his skull completely smashed in, forensics had been collecting fragments all day.

The body had been found by Turrel, the patches most notorious tramp who treated the station like a doss house and who hadn't even blanched when he'd almost stepped back into fragments of skull and brains and God only knows what, saying simply that he'd seen worse in the Gulf war and could they be so kind to hurry up as Toothless Henry would be nicking the prime begging spot in the high street as they spoke.

He on the other hand had struggled to remain professional and not empty his stomach into the murky water of the canal. No matter how many horrific deaths he saw he still struggled to disengage from the carnage on view in front of his eyes. Turrel had seen it in his eyes, had muttered quietly in his ear ("sometimes it all gets a bit much, son. There's no shame in admitting it."), before he'd wandered away spouting the drivel of the madman Troy now knew he wasn't. The words, however, had stuck with him all day, playing on his mind.

It _wasn't_ too much for him.

They still hadn't been able to ID the body, now lying cold in the morgue. There were no matching Misper files and forensics wouldn't be back till morning. No witnesses had come forward; they had no idea where he'd been that night, nor where he was heading. There was nothing to go on. The man might as well not have existed. Gavin thought that was the worst thing about the city; Midsomer may have had more than its fair share of brutal murders, but at least they'd meant something. Had been real people. Here so many bodies remained unidentified - Illegal immigrants, the homeless, and thousands of others with no one to miss them or even to notice that they were dead; the faceless and nameless.

Gulping down a mouthful of water to quell the sudden wave of nausea Gavin forced himself to focus once more on the computer screen. He was coping, he was happy; he was going to solve this case. And, if he had to repeat it to himself till he had no choice but to believe it then so be it.

Meanwhile...

250 miles away DS Dan Scott slouched further into the forgiving seat of the sofa and popped another can of lager, tray of take away curry balanced precariously on his knee. Not necessarily his preferred way of spending an evening but the lovely PC Angela had just dropped him in favour of the company of that foreign git Marco from forensics. And Cully. Well, Barnaby had seen to it that that had gone tits up too. (The tits, unfortunately, being very definitely of the figurative kind) Not that he was, of course, bitter in any way.

Shovelling another forkful of madras into his mouth he grimaced, even the takeaways round here were foul. He hated Midsomer.

Back in Middlesbrough...

"Let me guess, you got that tie when you were working in Midsomer?"

"Huh" Troy looked down at the offending article, a vibrant red superimposed with overlapping squares of blue, yellow and green, "what's wrong with it?"

"Nothing." Sandra shook her head but Gavin could see the smirk on her face, "nothing, if the clown look was what you were going for!"

He would have retorted but DC Shannon interrupted them. "Sir," Sandra coughed, and the man nodded to acknowledge her, "DS Phillips, forensics have come up with the goods on that IC1 from yesterday, turns out he was copper, DC Darren Hicks. At least he was, left the Met last year."

Things were looking up. They checked his records and came up with an address, a flat on the Langsville Est., a favourite with dealers, junkies and casual users alike. It wasn't long before he and Sandra were searching the flat for any evidence of where Hicks had been the night before last.

"Sir…"

"Yeah" He called from where he was currently rifling through the ankle deep debris in the living room.

Sandra emerged in the doorway, a slim notebook dangling from her gloved fingers.

"Look what I've found."

On closer inspection it turned out the notebook was in fact a diary, well, of a sort. Most of the pages were blank, a few doodles of cubes and swirls and daggers and the odd scrawled telephone number. However the page for the day before last, the day their man had met a messy end, was crammed full of untidy handwriting.

The case just got more and more interesting. From the stash of smack they'd found behind the U-bend and the needles laying all across the bedroom floor to the suspiciously tight lipped reaction he'd gotten from Hicks' old nick when he'd put a call through. It seemed nobody wanted to tell him exactly why Hicks had left the Met.

Back at the station, he read the diary entry properly, noting that one name appeared again and again. The thing was he had the oddest feeling he'd seen it somewhere before.


	2. Chapter 2

"Buzzzz. Buzzzz. Buzzzzz."

Dan warily opened an eye, flung out an arm and groped around for the perpetrator of such an ungodly noise. It was only after sticking his hand in the remainder of his curry and knocking over a still mostly full can of lager that he succeeded in getting a hold on his mobile phone, pressing the green button and positioning it against his ear.

"Scott, where are you?" The voice sounded deafening and his entire body seemed to reverberate in protest. It could only be Barnaby. Just marvellous, what better way was there to be woken up?

"Sir? What time is it?" He winced, the croak scraping his throat raw. There was no way he'd drunk enough last night to feel _this_ bad.

"It's practically midday, what are you doing?" The tone softened somewhat, "what's wrong with your voice? Are you ill?"

Dan considered the question; he was currently lying half on, half off, his too small sofa, his head was throbbing, his limbs ached and his throat felt like someone had taken sandpaper to it during the night. In isolation none of this was particularly unusual, but when combined he decided he could quite reasonably declare himself ill.

"Yes, sir."

He could hear Barnaby talking to someone else on the other end of the line, something about following up a lead in Midsomer Newton. Probably another murder. God, how he hated Midsomer. "Alright well, I'll get someone to cover you. Ring in tomorrow if you're not going to be in." The line went dead.

Scott scowled and dropped the offending piece of technology back onto the coffee table, uncaring of the now sizable pool of lager currently dripping onto the floor, wiped his hand on his jeans (he'd wash them later) rolled over and went back to sleep.

When he next opened his eyes he immediately wished he hadn't. The pain in his head was now threatening to split it in two. He lay very still and tried to fight back the urge to be sick. He felt cold. He felt hot. He felt _ill_. When he was reasonably sure slight movement wouldn't result in him losing the contents of his stomach he gingerly got up, clasped an empty glass from the mess around him and shuffled to the bathroom. It felt like the world was spinning and as he stood at the sink, head leaning against the cool mirrored surface of the bathroom cabinet Dan wondered whether he just might be dying.

In the meantime...

Uniforms' efforts had finally paid off; they now had a witness who could place Hicks at Evo, a nightclub in the centre of town from 10pm till about 1am. Apparently he'd gotten into a bit of a scrap with another man, average build, average height, dark hair, and left shortly after with a girl the bouncer recognised from the CCTV footage as Marie Prince.

They eventually caught up with her outside the needle exchange around midday.

"Marie Prince?" Gavin flashed his ID, "can I have a word?"

She had the sallow complexion of an addict, greasy hair and wore a pair of enormous gold hooped earrings, the likes of which he didn't think he'd ever seen back in Midsomer.

"I ain't done nothing before you start. And, no, I don't know where Adrian is neither."

"Adrian?" His memory helpfully supplied him with an image of Adrian Prince, small time dealer who was currently wanted for jumping bail, "Oh, this isn't about him."

Half hour later he, Sandra, and Marie were ensconced in interview room two, taking Miss. Prince's statement.

"So, how did you know Darren?"

"I've seen him with Adrian a few times. I quite liked him; he's been looking out for me since Ade went AWOL, slipping me a few quid for the kids."

Gavin interrupted hastily, "and where are they now?"

Marie looked at him derisively, "School." She inspected her fingernails, "then they're going round my mam's. Spend half their time now since your lot got on to social services." With that she fixed him with another glare, "I can look after my own kids, you know."

When Troy didn't respond, Sandra continued, "So you were out with him last night? Can you tell me about this fight he had in the club?"

Marie sighed, "look, I liked Darren, I'm sorry he's dead. But we weren't joined at the hip. This bloke," she looked up pointedly, "and, no, I'd never seen him before, started having a go at him. Saying something about someone not being happy with him and that he ought to start watching his back."

"Do you have any idea what he was referring too?"

"Haven't a clue. Anyway, Darren punched him and after that we left, he tried it on with me in the alley behind the back of the club, and I told him where to go. I got a taxi home. I don't know what he did after that. Look, can I go now or what?"

"Well, wasn't that helpful?" Sandra's tone was dripping with sarcasm as they watched Marie walk away from the station. "Have you had any luck remembering where you'd seen that name before? I ran it through the database and got nothing."

Troy shook his head, "Not yet."


	3. Chapter 3

"Hello, who's calling please?" The false chirpiness of the receptionist grated on his nerves. Could she not tell he felt like shit?

"DS Scott" Dan hoped she could hear him as there was no way on earth he could speak up.

"Yes?"

"I don't think I can make it today" He broke off for a short, but nonetheless, agonising coughing fit, "I've got flu."

"Mmmm."

Dan waited a moment before persevering, "Any messages for me?"

"No. DC Jones is covering your cases." Then as an afterthought, "Oh, get well soon." Dan thought it had the same patronising ring to it as 'have a nice day'. He dropped the phone back into its cradle.

Scott sank his head back into the pillows and tried to ignore the black spots dancing across his vision. The marching band in his head were still in full swing, the playing off key and out of tune, much like the children's orchestra he'd been forced to endure at the Midsomer Worthy fayre the week before. He still had trouble comprehending how his life had bollocksed up so completely as to land him in this backwater hellhole.

Barnaby, from the moment he'd met him, had made it clear Scott would _never_ fit in in Midsomer. Would _never_ live up to his expectations in a sergeant. Would _never_ be a patch on Troy. And how many times had he heard that name since his arrival? Troy this, Troy that, Troy the bloody other. If he ever laid eyes on the perfect Sergeant Troy he'd be sorely tempted to swing for him, just to see if his Mother Theresa act could withstand it, or if the simpering git would slug him back.

His whole train of thought was ridiculous and he laughed, a painful barking that quickly became a body racking cough that left his ribs aching and his breath coming in wheezy, rattling pants.

The worst thing, he realised as he tried to get his breath back, was that Saint Troy wasn't even a sergeant anymore. He'd made DI. He, Scott, was supposed to be a DI. He had been on track to ass his inspector's exams and go for the vacancy coming up at the neighbouring station. All his superiors had said he'd do it, would make them proud, and would carve out a glittering career for himself. At least they had before… Well before. It had been the anniversary this week too. He wasn't so ill he could forget that. Cocooning himself in the covers he attempted to go back to sleep. And, if he only fell exhausted into the welcoming arms of sleep after sobbing pitifully for a full half hour, it was just the side effects of the painkillers he'd found next to a bottle of unopened homemade shampoo (pressed on him by some old biddy from Midsomer Mallow) in the bathroom cabinet. It didn't mean anything. It hadn't been his fault.

Elsewhere...

Troy drummed his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel; the traffic was always hell coming out of Middlesbrough. It had come to him as he'd been picking out a tie, his mind wandering to Sandra's comments about his choice in neckwear, how the monstrosities he owned could only have come from somewhere as out of touch as Midsomer. He'd thought of Barnaby, of the last letter he'd gotten, telling him of another round of bloody killings and news of Joyce and Cully. Most of it though had been dedicated to complaining about his new Sergeant, a transfer from the Met, DS Dan Scott. The very name that had been plaguing him ever since he saw it scrawled in Hicks' unsteady hand.

He doubted it was a particularly wise idea to rush off to Midsomer to check the man out, it wasn't essential to the case and Troy acknowledged guiltily it had far more to do with his own desire to see Midsomer again than it had to do with solving the mystery surrounding the death of the unfortunate Darren Hicks. Still, his DCI, had passed it with a smile, told him not to rush and to get a few visits in while he was down there. Apparently he was in imminent danger of burning himself out and a day or two away with a change of scenery would be just what he needed. He was inclined to agree.


	4. Chapter 4

The smell of damp and sewage assaulted his nostrils as he, cautiously as possible, made his way through the abandoned corridors. He couldn't help the sickening pull of guilt in his gut as he took in the situation. Darren had gone missing the night before, just vanished off the face of the Earth. They'd both known for weeks that he was in too deep, but neither had approached the DCI. If he found out they'd continued with the obbo under his nose they might as well wave goodbye to their careers. Still Scott grimaced, as his footsteps splashed in the 3 inches of water that seemed to cover the entirety of the warehouse floor, the way it was going they'd be lucky to get out of it alive, let alone with their careers in tact.

The muffled sound of voices drew him further; gingerly he peered round the corner, to be met with a scene that caused his heart to skip a beat. There in the middle of the room on his knees was Darren. And stood towering in front of him, gun swaying dangerously was Ben Simmons, his sister Juliette sobbing hysterically at the side of him. He reached for his radio, was just about to push the button and ask where the hell his back-up was when he felt the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed to back of his neck.

"Put that down."

He thumbed the panic button as he dropped his radio to the floor with a clatter, heard Ben's high-strung cry of "who's there?" before Mike instructed him to put his hands on his head and walk forward. His heart thumped so hard he was almost surprised it wasn't audible. Stepping into the dim light of the room his eyes met Darren's, he had to look away from the fierce anger he saw there.

"On your knees, filth. I told the old man months ago you couldn't be trusted. He never listened to anything that was good for him."

Scott swallowed heavily and tried to remember his training. Things every good little plod should know #37 – how to talk yourself and colleagues out of a hostage situation. Shame he'd skipped the lecture on what to do when you'd been infiltrating the homicidal maniacs from the inside for the best part of a year. Mike moved back to the doorway, keeping guard. He stayed still for a minute, an eternity, trying to get a grip on the mind numbing fear racing through his body. Exhaling slowly he embarked on the negotiations they'd drummed into his head so soundly back at training school.

He pitched his voice carefully so it wouldn't carry,

"Look, we know you've killed your dad."

Juliette screamed and Ben yelled at her to shut up or he'd put a bullet through Darren's skull. His heart rate soared till it was painful, but Mike didn't come over. Darren had worked his way much closer than he had, he was supposed to be marrying Juliette, had gotten her father on side. Problem was her brothers, Mike and Ben, had other ideas. They'd found out who Darren really was, he'd tried to warn him but it had been too late - by the time he'd gotten to the club they'd scarpered, Darren in tow. The lifeless body of Charlie Simmons left slumped against the wall, bullet lodged in his temple.

He glanced up; Ben was pacing nervously, twitchy. He guessed he was going through withdrawal.

"Ben, we can help you. We know Mike made you do it. You aren't a killer Ben, I know. You just want to protect Juliette." Ben was close to his younger sister, had resented Darren from the off, especially when his father had "promoted" his pocket copper to a position of trust that his son could only dream of. "You think you're going to be able to protect her when you're banged up? I can help you with your dad – but you kill him," he motioned his head towards Darren, "or me, you won't be out till you're grey. You really want that?"

He could see that he was getting through – Darren was more interested in being a user than a dealer. Didn't have the same ambition to become a drug baron that his older brother harboured.

"Shut up, pig. You don't know me." With that Juliette made a grab for the gun, a tussle broke out. Mike left his standpoint to try and sort them out.

In the commotion Scott scooted closer to Darren, the hope of getting his hands unbound in his head when a shot rang out.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!" Darren kept repeating it and Juliette was screaming again. He turned to look behind him to see Ben on the floor. His hands clasping at his chest, blood seeping from the wound, staining his white T-shirt a deep red. The rest was a blur, SO-19 swarming everywhere, yelling. Juliette screaming and screaming and screaming.

He woke with a scream on his own lips.

The room still felt like it was spinning, round and round and round and he couldn't stop shivering with the icy cold in his bones even though the sweat was pouring off him, soaking the sheets and the pillows. Everything ached. This wasn't just flu. He knew he should call a doctor, call Barnaby, call someone.

He couldn't stay in bed, it was suffocating. He hauled himself from the tangle of bedclothes and shakily got to his feet. The earth still spinning so dangerously fast, he couldn't see straight. He only managed a step or two in the direction of the door before everything went black.


	5. Chapter 5

Troy found himself on the familiar roads into Midsomer by early afternoon and made straight for the address he'd been given for DS Scott. He'd negotiated with his head that he wouldn't call ahead in case Scott really was involved in the murder, to make sure he didn't have time to destroy any evidence or worm his way out of it. The reality was that he wanted to surprise the Barnaby's by just turning up on their doorstep. As he parked the car in one of Causton's residential areas he couldn't keep the grin from his face, he really was looking forward to seeing his old boss and his family; they'd been more like family to him than his own parents during his time at Causton CID.

The grin stayed with him during the short walk to Scott's place. Striding up to the front door he knocked brusquely and tried not to think about what he was going to say when he met his replacement face to face. Tom might complain about Scott – but then he'd also complained about him. He supposed he didn't much like the idea of being met with a newer, improved version of himself.

He needn't have worried. Even after banging on the door a third time there was no sign of movement. He made to peer in through the living room window but the curtain's were drawn - which struck him as odd, but then he was back in Midsomer. It was only when one of the neighbours appeared to ask what the commotion was about that he realised his rookie's mistake. Scott probably wasn't in because he was at work. Berating his stupidity he made his way back to the car and drove to the station.

"Troy!" Tom greeted him with a welcoming smile and a pat on the back. "What brings you back to this neck of the woods?"

"Actually, Sir, I'm here on business." Tom nodded with interest and motioned for him to follow him.

Twenty minutes later they were sat outside the White Star Tavern in Causton as Gavin concluded his tale.

Tom's brow creased in thought, "So you think Scott is involved somehow?"

"Well, I don't really know." He took a sip of his drink before probing further, "you know him, do you think it's possible?"

"Unreliable, cynical, and lazy as Scott might be Troy, I can't imagine him getting involved in something like that. Still, you say he wasn't at home?"

"No, Sir. I thought he'd be with you."

"He called in sick earlier this week." Tom's voice lowered till he was almost speaking to himself, "Although if I find out he's abusing my trust to swan off God knows where… And to think I felt sorry for him."

Gavin looked at him questioningly, "Don't you think you're being a bit harsh, Sir?"

Barnaby sighed and gave him a smile, "You're probably right, Troy."

After that they fell quiet, although the silence was more contemplative than strained. Eventually Tom broke it;

"So, where are you staying? You _are_ staying for a few days?"

Troy shrugged, he hadn't really thought that far ahead, "hotel probably."

"Nonsense Troy, Joyce and I have a perfectly good spare room. Come round after you've sorted this out with Scott." Before Gavin could protest – about the room or the fact he didn't even know where Scott was, Barnaby dug in his pocket and held out a key. Gavin raised an eyebrow in question.

"Key for Scott's place, Troy. Don't look so shocked, I always keep one for emergencies – I had a key to your flat, or have you forgotten?" Barnaby's eyes twinkled mischievously and Gavin blushed at the memory of his DCI walking in on him at what you could call an inopportune moment. He hoped Tom didn't make a habit of it.

Back at Scott's place he tried once more at the door before giving in and turning the key in the lock.

"Hello?" He called out into the dim light. No answer. He made for the first open door; it led into the living room. Wrinkling his nose he took in the mess, empty lager cans and the smell of stagnant food. Shutting the door behind him he pushed on and made his way up the narrow staircase. There were two doors, the first one he tried led into the bathroom – much cleaner than the downstairs had been and he found himself reassessing his initial impression that Scott was just a slob. The second door opened easily at his touch and as it swung open he was met with the sight of a figure lying on the floor.

He recognised the face from the picture in his records, Dan Scott. Panic flooded his senses for a moment, thoughts of organised crime and drug rings and why was it he couldn't he detect any rise and fall of the man's chest? His fears were abated somewhat on closer inspection, Scott was breathing, albeit shallowly. He pulled back his eyelids, taking in the heavily dilated pupils and the cold clammy feel of the man's skin.

"Come on, Dan. Can you hear me? Come on, wake up!"

The relief when the other man opened his eyes was palpable and he shouldered most of Scott's weight to get him on his feet and down to the car.

The drive to the hospital seemed to take hours, although he knew it couldn't have been more than 15 minutes. Scott sat slumped in his seat with his head against the passenger window and mumbled to himself most of the journey. Troy decided the man _must_ be on something. Scott's only really lucid moment came at a set of traffic lights when he'd fixed him with a look that had made his hands feel twitchy and asked him who he was.

"D.I. Troy… Gavin." He'd had to look away, even drugged to the eyeballs Scott's gaze held an intensity that made him uncomfortable, "I used to do your job."

Scott had muttered something to himself and giggled – his breath laboured and Troy couldn't help but worry. "I should be a DI" The words had been said with such conviction that Troy had glanced at him and raised an eyebrow before focusing once more on the road. "It's true, I was going to be. Till I got sent here" Scott had scowled. "I hate Midsomer"

Pulling himself from the memory Gavin took a deep breath of the cold night air before keying the Barnaby's home number into his mobile.


	6. Chapter 6

Tom couldn't sleep, no matter how much he tossed and turned or Joyce threatened to send him to the spare room he just couldn't get his thoughts in any sort of order. First Troy had just turned up out of the blue, which was admittedly the most pleasant surprise he'd had in a long time, but then before he'd known what was happening Scott was a potential suspect in a murder enquiry. He hadn't even began to get his head round that before Troy had rang him from the hospital to tell him he'd found Scott unconscious on his bedroom floor, and that he was being kept in for observation on the suspicion the collapse was drug related.

He wanted to be there but Troy had assured him he had everything under control and at such a late hour there was no need for him to come. A sentiment an eavesdropping Joyce had been only too happy to agree with, reminding him that Troy was a DI in his own right now and wouldn't appreciate him taking over the case. He knew all that, but he cared about his officers, it was what made him a good DCI.

At least he'd always thought he made a good DCI, now he wasn't so sure. If Scott really had been on drugs what did that say about him? That he couldn't even recognise the symptoms in his own sergeant, let alone in the wider community? But he'd never noticed anything about Scott that might suggest he was using. Scott could be temperamental, miserable, but he'd just put that down to him being a city boy, unhappy with his transfer to the country.

Which brought him straight back to the first question – why had Scott been sent here? He'd never forced the issue with the man's old DCI; it was enough to know Scott was here and there was nothing he could do about it. Scott wouldn't have gotten himself involved in something so shady, would he?

Tom turned over again, suddenly feeling very old, and let the arguments continue to rage in his head. He finally fell asleep in the early hours, his only respite his relief that he'd managed to stop Cully from getting involved with Scott.

Next morning…

Troy set the coffee down on the bedside table and sat down, fidgeting with the plastic cup in his own hands. Scott eyed him curiously.

"Why-" Troy found himself struggling once again under the scrutiny of those dark eyes, "Why didn't you call DCI Barnaby or something? Despite what you may think of him he's a good man."

Scott looked mildly offended, but before Troy could open his mouth to apologise the other man was already speaking. "I had my reasons. A better question might be what are _you_ doing here? Surely you didn't come all the way from Middlesbrough just to be my guardian angel?"

The way Scott looked at him, it was weirdly intense and Gavin couldn't tear his own eyes away even as he felt the blush creep down his neck and across his cheeks. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the spell was broken with the arrival of a pretty young nurse to check up on Scott and he looked away embarrassed.

"How are you feeling this morning?"

"A lot better thanks."

The doctor had been by earlier to explain what had happened. Scott had had a case of food poisoning, made worse by an allergic reaction to the painkillers he'd taken. The doctor had lectured Scott on the safe use of medication, how he'd been lucky to have a friend come and check up on him. Scott had beamed at him and given him a cheeky wink before telling the doctor that he was "St. Troy".

Confused he stood, abandoning the uncomfortable plastic chair to stand by the window. There was something so… disconcerting about Scott. He glanced over at where the man in question was flirting easily with the nurse and swallowed the pang of jealousy he felt as Scott flashed her a charming smile. He couldn't understand how Scott's mere presence could affect him so much.

Later…

The drive back to Causton was silent, Dan staring blankly out of the window watching the familiar scenery fly past. He didn't want to admit it but he was shook up. The doctor had implied that had nobody found him, had Troy not turned up on his doorstep, he could have died. He'd been in Midsomer over a year now yet still hadn't made a close enough friend for them to be concerned enough to check up on him. The place would never be home, no matter how hard he tried.

He snuck a glance at Troy; his brow was furrowed in concentration as he navigated the narrow winding roads. He'd said Darren was dead – he still wasn't sure what the resulting emotion pressing down on him was. Loss? Regret? Guilt? Troy had seemed to believe him when he'd told him he'd had nothing to do with it. That he hadn't even heard from Darren since he left the Met, scant days before the DPS could sling him out for his involvement in drugs and firearms offences, never mind countless cases of obstruction of justice.

Then, just before they'd left the hospital a colleague of Troy's had rung, to say that they'd had a break through in the Hicks case. Darren had been a runner for one of the city's major dealers, but had been keeping sizable portions of the deliveries back for personal consumption. One of the man's other lackeys had done him in on orders from above – although of course they wouldn't be able to get anything to stick on the big fry. Usual story.

Troy was, however, staying the weekend, had asked him if he needed to talk. Unaccountably he'd nodded; there was something… honest about the man. Despite having only clapped (none too focussed) eyes on him the day before he already felt he could trust him. St. Troy indeed. A humourless smile touched his lips; he was planning on telling the man stuff he'd never told anyone, not even the counsellor they'd assigned him after the event. He knew he was going to spill his guts – he just couldn't for the life of him understand why.


	7. Chapter 7

**So, searching through my (pitiful) collection of half finished fanfics I found another chapter for this one. Enjoy. :)**

Troy placed a mug of tea in front of Scott on the now cleared coffee table. He'd taken pity on him and cleared up while the other man was in the shower, not that Scott had appeared to notice. He sat down next to him and willed Scott to break the silence.

When it became clear he wasn't going to do anything other than sit staring morosely in front of him, Gavin cleared his throat.

"Were – were you close to him?"

Scott looked surprised when he looked up, like he'd forgotten there was someone else there. That was gratitude for you.

"Yeah, yeah I was. Back when we both at the Met that is. I was working on a drugs bust and I needed someone on the inside, at this bar the guy in charge of the operation owned. Uniform lent me PC Hicks. I wangled Darren some bar work – told them he was a bent copper looking for some extra work." Looking over at Gavin's bemused face he gave a small smile, "they already thought _I_ was a dodgy detective. He was really good at it, you know. We arrested one of the bigger dealers on our patch and he became a DC." Scott picked at a lose thread on the arm of the sofa, studiously avoiding his gaze. "Thing was we both knew we could get a better haul than that. I suggested, no. I told Darren to keep his cover so we could build a case on the major dealers and their suppliers."

Scott finally looked up and the question in his eyes was clear; was it such a bad thing to bend the rules a little to get a result? Gavin pretended he couldn't see and concentrated on his rapidly cooling tea. Scott dropped his gaze and continued,

"It was going well; Darren even started seeing the guy's daughter, Juliette. Then the DCI found out… he told us we'd both be up before a disciplinary if we so much as thought about continuing with it. But –"

"You didn't stop." Gavin finished for him and Scott nodded miserably. Gavin sucked in a breath, the man was lucky to still be in the force at all, let alone still hold the rank of detective sergeant.

"No, we didn't stop. This time I wanted to but Darren talked me out of it. We were so close, and by then Darren was engaged to Juliette, he couldn't just pull out of it anyway." Scott ran a hand through his hair and his voice grew quieter, desperate somehow. "There was a big deal going down, a shipment coming in from Columbia, and they trusted Darren so much they had him organise the meet. We should have gone to the DCI but…"

Scott swiped angrily at his eyes and Troy looked away in sympathy. "But we were stupid. And careless. I couldn't afford to be found out and I persuaded Darren to keep with it just for a few more days. Mike, that is, the boss's son overheard the conversation between us and put two and two together. He as good as told me that he knew! I knew Darren would be at the club, so I went round there – but they were gone. They'd shot the old man in the head and made off with the money from the till and Darren."

"We tracked his mobile phone signal to an old deserted warehouse on the East side of the river. I knew it was my fault, I shouldn't have forced him into it… So, I didn't wait for back-up, went barging in."

Scott's eyes took on a faraway quality as he relayed how he'd found Darren and they'd both been held at gunpoint.

"I thought for certain I was going to die." Those big brown eyes bore into him, "I tried to negotiate our way out of there. Picked at Ben, he was the weakest of the three – but Juliette tried to get the gun from him to save Darren. I think she really loved Darren. The gun went off and… she'd hit Ben. There was nothing they could do for him. She killed herself in custody three days later.

Darren… couldn't forgive me. I don't blame him! The DCI came down on us like a ton of bricks, especially Darren. The DPS wanted to throw the book at him – he'd helped to cover up a lot of shit over those two years. The Super fixed it so he just had to resign though. He loved the Met… I should have been the one they went for. But I kept quiet about how I pressured him into it. I got off lightly, just with a transfer.

Gavin watched as Scott broke down and sobbed; he knew he shouldn't have pushed so hard, what with the state the man was in. It was a lot to take in. At the forefront of his mind though he couldn't stop thinking about the trust Scott had just placed in him – if he went to Barnaby about this. If the truth came out that Hicks had been coerced… But what good would it do now? Hicks was dead. Troy battled with his conscience for a moment.

He looked at Scott's weeping form and something lurched inside him. It wasn't as if Scott had _forced_ Hicks into it – it had ultimately been his choice. They were both as much to blame. Pushing any further doubts from his mind he wrapped an arm around Scott's shoulder and didn't pull away when the other man buried his face in his chest.

After a few minutes Scott pulled back and scrubbed at his face.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me; haven't cried for years and now I've done it twice in as many days." He gave him a small lopsided grin that pulled at Gavin's heartstrings.

"It's alright; the doctor said you shouldn't be put under undue stress anyway. Were likely to be a bit emotional"

He was going to say more when there was a knock at the door. Gavin got up to answer it, giving Scott a few moments to compose himself.

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Tom waited anxiously at the door; he hadn't been able to stay away any longer. He had to know what was going on. As Scott's commanding officer, he reasoned, it was his right. He was just about to hammer at the door again when it was pulled back to reveal none other than Gavin Troy. He looked stressed and Tom fervently hoped it _wasn't_ because Scott was a drug addict or a murderer.

"Sir?" Troy craned his neck to look into the sitting room before continuing, "Come in"

Troy led the way into the sitting room, Scott was sat on the sofa, his face blotchy and red; clearly his sergeant had been crying. It didn't bode well.

Troy, seeing the look on his face, hastily explained that Scott had had nothing to do with the murder he'd been investigating. He felt his shoulders slump with relief and he sat down in the nearest armchair. He hadn't realised just how worried he had been until the weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Taking in Scott's vulnerable appearance (he'd never thought he'd have cause to link those two words) he was forcibly reminded of the other issue. "So, what happened last night then?"

When Scott remained silent Troy spoke for him, "he had an allergic reaction to some painkillers, sir. The doctor said he'll be fine in a few days."

Tom couldn't help but grin. He'd known Scott couldn't really be a part of anything like that. Any differences they might have had in the past seemed somehow less important now, and there was a cheerful lilt to his voice as he asked Scott when he could be expecting him back at the station. His answer rather took the wind from his sails.

"You can't." He looked up at Scott surprised, and noted a similar expression on Troy's face.

"Might I ask _why_?"

Scott met his gaze steadily, "I want to request a transfer."

"Scott, are you sure?" Whilst he guiltily acknowledged the pleasure the thought of Scott transferring gave him, he suddenly couldn't bear the thought of forcing him. If they really couldn't work together he could assign him to other cases, he didn't necessarily have to leave Midsomer.

But the younger man wouldn't be talked out of it, and by the time he left an hour later, Troy in tow, he'd already decided on a replacement and made a mental checklist of all the stations he knew were looking for sergeants.


	8. Chapter 8

A few months ago I pretty much rewrote this fic – the main idea, Troy meeting Scott through a case, is the same; it's just the how that's different. You can find it in my profile under "Strange Coincidences". Chapter 6 takes off from the end of this section of the story – you could read straight from there but any references to their first meeting will come from the rewritten version.

xXx


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